ECML Coach Formations (Part 4).


CLUB DED

A great life indeed. Over the next few years, Myra had really made a niche for herself. Swiftly and professionally executed (whoops! No pun intended), she became a byword in the underworld, though few knew who she was, much less where she was. In fact, it was said that Hit or Contract had gone out of style in the UK and "Doing a
Myra" or a "Myra Job" were the new phrases of choice. Between three and five jobs a year were all she could handle however, because she still worked as a clerical officer in an office just outside London and she still lived with her elderly parents. She made sure they were looked after, usually sending them away when a job was coming up. They thought they had a caring and loving daughter, which I suppose they did.

But gradually Myra became discontented. The thrill of killing began to wain slightly. If she had to do a job that demanded business clothes and a car, she didn't get off like she used to. Now the leathers and bike had become part of the thrill. And not having the ability to tell anyone about her activities also took it's toll. Down the pub one night with her mate Deb, Deb mentioned a particularly brutal shooting that had taken place in Kent just a couple of days before. "Do you know, someone shot this geezer in the head, throat, chest, stomach and then blew off his cock!" Deb whispered. Myra longed to say "Yeah, it was me. I fucking did it", but instead looked despondently at her glass of Pils.

She got home that night and looked at herself in the mirror. Overweight, sagging breasts, varicose veins. Her panties were the size of a large holdall. Nearly forty something. She was still pretty, but there was no denying the double chin and puffy cheeks. When was the last time a bloke had taken interest in her? She couldn't remember when, but she did remember he was drunk. Not that she wanted a man-but she did want the attention...
She reached into her pocket for her cigarettes. The cheap plastic lighter could be heard inside the otherwise empty packet. Fuck. And then a smile spread across her face. She had always told herself "No drinking and driving" but tonight she didn't care. And that certainly meant the bike. But tonight she didn't care.

Shoehorning herself into her leather jeans had sapped her energy. She sat on the bed regaining her breath. Then she put the jacket over her bare breasts, slipped on a pair of gloves and rammed a short bore .38 into the right pocket. Excitement began to pulse through her whole body as she straddled her bike. Deftly flicking out the starter she jumped down with all her might. And again. "Come on, fucker" The bike roared at the third time of asking and Myra soon found herself deserted all-night petrol station. She carefully rested the still running bike on it's prop stand and looking around, entered within. "Forty Silk Cut, please luv" she said to the sleepy your man behind the counter. Myra took the cigarettes and zipped them into her left pocket. It was almost 3.00am. "Fanks darlin" Myra said with a smile"Hey-you didn't pay" was the pained response. Myra's smile disappeared. She pulled the .38 out of her pocket and immediately fired a round into the clock. Then squeezed a few more off. The chilled drinks cabinets, the microwave behind the counter, the cash register, all fell victim to Myra's lust for gunfire. "I've got two left-you wanna get 'ome tonight or what?" The young man was wide eyed with terror, "Go, just fuckin' go" Myra turned and ran out. She leapt on her bike with energy she thought she didn't have and screaming into the night, her back wheel sliding wildly when the bike hit a patch of gravel as she turned onto the main road.

The next day she was waiting for the train to work. She stared horrified at the platform news stand. "BLOND BIKER BABE HOLDS UP SERVICE STATION" screamed the Sun   "PISTOL PACKIN' MAMA  TERRORIZES ESSEX" chimed the Mirror. She squirmed all the way to work, trying not to looked at anyone, thinking everyone was looking at her. When she reached the office, she buried herself in work. A young kid who had just started plonked the paper down on her desk. The identikit picture looked too much like her. "What you bin doin' then, My?" asked the youth. "Fuck off, I'm busy" replied Myra.

And he wasn't the only one. A few others at the office mentioned the likeness in a light hearted fashion and when she got home even her parents remarked upon the likeness. This had not been one of Myra's smartest moves. When she got in her room there were about seven messages on her mobile phone. All from the contact. Myra dialed him. "Yeah? You wanted me?" she said apprehensively. "What the fuck do you think you're doing? What are you, a fucking kid? You go and jeopordise what we've built up for a packet of fags? I tell you, you better lay low for a long time, my girl and keep your nose clean. There's nothing I can do to help. You're on your own. I'll be in touch when things claim down. Prat." Christ, thought Myra, what have I done.

It wasn't long before want she had done became evident. She about to spend the night alone at her house when, walking up the path a man stepped forward out of the bushes. He flashed a leather bound warrant card, which she couldn't really see. "Hello
Myra, I want a word with you..." Myra felt the bottom of her stomach fall away and beads of sweat instantly formed on her forehead. Then she felt a hand take her roughly by the throat as another placed cloth over her mouth...down down down. Myra was falling down a deep wide shaft. Every now and then she would fall through a blinding light or a sudden blast of air. But always falling down. And then-nothing, just inky black, soft nothingness


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